How Many Times Can Matt Die?
by trumpee-Aiyana
Summary: Dark abuse fic. Implied homosexuality and drug use, nothing too graphic. Oneshot. R&R if you like.


A man can die a hundred times. A thousand, even. There is no absolute low, no rock bottom in this world. Only pain, then acceptance, and then more pain later on. If he's naïve enough to think that, by moving on, by accepting it, he'll eventually find happiness, the next death is even worse. The cycle repeats indefinitely, until all that's left is a ragged husk of a once vivid life. A child learns early on that, no matter how bad things get, time soldiers on, mocking your weakness…your inconsistency. To be so destroyed by everyday life- it's beyond pathetic. You either pick yourself up, or you stay down and let the rest of the world continue existing without you. You get trampled on, shoved to the ground, kicked when you ask for food. You die inside. But you resolve to make things better. You stand up, you shake the dirt off your face. You wipe the blood from your mouth. You soldier on, just like the rest of the world. You get comfortable.

Then something happens, as life is prone to doing. You fail. You fall. Every miniscule internal conflict you thought you had the willpower to overcome is suddenly overpowering you, washing your progress away. You're not strong, who were you kidding? You die. Again.

Then you pick up the pieces of your life, your will. You put yourself back together. But some of the pieces don't fit anymore. You become jaded; cold. Parts of you are so used to being crushed they simply refuse to react anymore. The world starts to darken. You start to lose interest. Things you once shunned become common place. When driven to melancholy, even the most taboo of actions is reasonable. When driven to desperation...

And the more often you die, the worse it gets.

Matt slumped in the corner of the dark kitchen. His head hung limp, chin against his chest. Tears that had long since stopped flowing stained his face and shirt. A dull ache throbbed on his right side. His mind was cloudy. What time was it? A pained glance at the clock on the stove told him it was 2 AM. Slowly, the sounds of the room began fading into recognition. The television was on in the living room was on. Two women were chattering hyperactively in Spanish. The blue glow of the TV illuminated most of the room. Aside from that, no noise could be heard.

He groaned as he sat up straight, pulling already sore muscles back into submission. The floor was littered with glass shards and blood. A pool at his feet told him most, if not all of it, was his own. Seeing that puddle caused his memory to come back. The ache in his ribcage started to burn, to scream with intense pain. He stopped all attempts at standing. He wasn't going anywhere, not soon anyway. This was far worse than last time, worse than any of the past times Mello had returned home angry.

How many times had this happened? A seemingly peaceful night alone, only to be disrupted by a furious, passionate blonde storming in and striking him? He'd lost count. He couldn't even remember the first incident any more. About once a month, Mello would come home, red faced with anger. Any attempts by Matt to calm him were met with a fist, and that was if he was lucky. Sometimes Mello would get excited, laughing at Matt's cries for mercy. Smiling even as the redhead cowered in the floor, trying in vain to block whatever weapon Mello had brandished against him. Usually, it wasn't so bad; a broom handle, a book, the occasional coal stirrer from the fireplace. When Matt had become used to even those, when his reactions weren't so much fear as apathy… that was when Mello got creative.

Tonight was one of his more expressive nights, apparently. The initial shock of abuse began to wane in Matt, replaced not with anger, but with a cold acceptance. He gritted his teeth as much as his swollen jaw would allow and stood slowly, grabbing the counter for support. The wound in his side was still bleeding. He was light headed and nauseous, but his mind was clear. This was just another night in this house. He'd stopped feeling sorry for himself months ago.

He didn't feel the glass pieces as he walked through them, though he knew they were tearing into his feet. He was barefoot and naked from the waist down. That was Mello's big finish. He'd take a break from beating Matt long enough to force him to strip. Then, with one swift motion, shove himself inside of him without any preparation. The louder Matt screamed, the harder Mello would thrust. Matt had fought back only once, the first time Mello had raped him like that. Mello's answer to his protests was to grab him by the hair and smash his face into the floor as he pounded him from behind, psychotic laughter drowning out Matt's pleading.

Matt could feel whelps developing on his back and thighs. Mello had used a belt tonight- anything to make Matt scream. He staggered to the bathroom. The bulb flipped on, blinding him for a long moment. When his eyes adjusted to the harsh light, he faced himself in the mirror. His face was already bruising; his whole right cheek was turning blue, and his jawline was black and swollen. One eye was crusted shut with blood. How long had he been unconscious? His hair was a greasy mess. He removed his shirt to confirm what he'd suspected. Mello had, at some point, stabbed him. It wasn't very deep, but the wound was jagged and crude. The skin had been pulled away from the cut; blood kept trickling out. It would need stitches, not that he ever got medical attention.

The rest of his body was a myriad of tiny cuts and scratches, as well as huge, lumping whelps from repeated strikes of Mello's belt. His back was the worst, but his stomach had its own fair share of the abuse. He grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol and poured it all over himself, ignoring the burn as the excess splattered on the white tile floor. He pulled on a dirty pair of boxers and limped to the couch, sitting in front of the television as it displayed its chaotic blur of Telemundo newscasts. He didn't focus on anything for hours. The cut in his side continued to bleed. Mello had obviously nicked something important for it to keep bleeding like this.

On the TV stand was his syringe and a tourniquet. He had no idea how long the drug had been lying out, or if Mello'd already used some of it, and he didn't care. He removed his hand from his wound, taking off the pressure. Dried blood caked his hands as he strapped the rubber hose over his arm and pulled it tight, flexing until he saw a vein. The needle was old; it burned as it pierced his skin. But that didn't matter. None of it mattered. He grabbed the closest half-empty bottle of scotch Mello had left lying around and laid back on the couch, taking a long pull from the bottle and closing his good eye. In the morning, he would wake up. Or he wouldn't. Either way, it didn't matter. He'd stopped caring a long time ago. He'd already died once tonight.

Matt woke up again at 4 AM, the pain in his side unbearable. His drugs were still in effect, because the whole world seemed hazy. Or was it the alcohol? Maybe he was going into shock from blood loss. He didn't have any control over his thoughts, regardless of the cause. His mind drifted to earlier times, right after he'd moved in with Mello. Somewhere inside him, he knew he loved Mello. Why else would he stay? The pain of leaving, of never seeing the blonde's face or strikingly blue eyes was so much worse than anything Mello had ever done. Leaving was not a choice, not even a consideration.

The tear in his side jostled him back to consciousness. He loved Mello. He loved him. But Mello was sick, Mello was hurtful. Mello needed help, needed to be dealt with. He watched himself stand. In an odd way, he no longer had control of his own body. His mind screamed with all its might to stop what he saw himself doing, but the great thing about heroin is that, no matter how much you try, your body gets a new mind. He saw himself limp into the kitchen. He grabbed a butcher's knife, carelessly letting the drawer slam back into place. Mello's room was across the house, down the hall. He staggered slowly in that direction, knife hanging flaccidly from the arm that wasn't clutching his side.

Mello lay in bed, passed out from the combination of drugs and alcohol in his system. Matt knew he wouldn't wake up. He didn't care if he did. He watched himself stand beside Mello's bed, staring at the blonde's unconscious body for an eternity. He swallowed, sweat dripping down his brow and neck. His hands shook- his whole body shook. He swayed to the side, dizzy, eyes fluttering. And in the darkness he turned away, forcing his legs to move through the fog of heroin and blood loss. Back down the hall, to the couch, collapsing into the threadbare furniture and losing consciousness once again.

**Author's note: Well, that was dark. Review if you feel like it. **


End file.
